


the stars will guide us home

by Anonymous



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hand Jobs, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, jealous FP, very dubcon for many reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:53:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jughead goes to the Whyte Wyrm to find FP and gets more than he bargained for.Featuring sleazy bikers, a protective dad, and a handjob in the back of Riverdale's seediest dive bar.





	the stars will guide us home

**Author's Note:**

> A follow-up to the first fic in this series, set sometime during the first four episodes of season one. 
> 
> Also inspired by [this prompt](https://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=52556#cmt52556) on the kinkmeme about jealous/possessive FP. 
> 
> Title is from [After Dark](https://mrkittydm.bandcamp.com/track/after-dark) by Mr. Kitty.

_The Whyte Wyrm._

Jughead stared at the glowing neon sign with butterflies in his stomach. A few leather-clad men were milling around outside of the bar, laughing and talking loudly. Their voices blended with the distant crunch of gravel and the rumble of motorcycles to create something familiar, conjuring up memories he’d nearly forgotten: sitting on his dad’s bike, feet barely scraping the pedals, propped up by grease-stained hands; the rumble of FP’s laughter, deep like the drone of the engine.

The memory made what he was about to do easier.

Jughead had prepared a speech for the bouncer (something about forgetting his ID and not looking his age) but he didn’t have to use it. The man at the door let him in without hesitation, waving him through with a grin and a quirk of his eyebrow that seemed to signal recognition. Jughead filed that away for later analysis, straightened his beanie, and stepped inside.

The air was thick with smoke, casting a sickly blue sheen over the greasy bar and its equally greasy patrons. Jughead stifled a cough, momentarily disoriented. He made his way to the bar and leaned on the counter, heart racing. There was no bartender in sight, which already derailed the first step of his plan.

The Plan:

  1. Enter the Lair of the Whyte Wyrm.
  2. Find bartender. Enquire about the whereabouts of dear old dad whilst avoiding the sleazefest around him.
  3. ???
  4. Force FP to face the music, sober up and fix entire family.



(Okay, it may not have been a very _good_ plan, but it was a work in progress.)

This was a stupid idea—he should really just go. A man down the bar was eyeing him with a drunken smirk, and Jughead bristled under the scrutiny.

“Your FP’s boy,” the man grunted.

“Yeah, maybe,” Jughead said, trying not to let his voice waver. “You seen him?”

The man shrugged and took a sip of his scotch (whiskey? Bourbon? They all looked the same to Jughead). A few drops of the amber liquid dribbled from his lips and into his beard.

“Thanks,” Jughead muttered, turning back to survey the bar. Yep, this was a stupid idea.

“Don’t mind ol’ Tug,” said an easy voice to his left. “He barely knows what day it is anymore.”

The man sauntering over to him looked like all the others, Jughead thought: bearded,dressed head-to-toe in leather, and with a confident swagger that was more than likely alcohol-induced.

“Mustang,” he said, and held out his hand. Jughead swallowed and took it gingerly. “And I know who you are,” Mustang said. He was looking at Jughead like a hungry animal, and there was probably some stupid, clichéd metaphor that perfectly described this feeling—rabbit in a den of wolves, maybe—but the only word that came to his mind was _fuck._

“My reputation precedes me,” Jughead managed, and Mustang chuckled.

“Your daddy’s reputation, more like. You looking for him?”

Jughead half shrugged, half nodded.

“Figures. He’s out right now, running some… errands. Won’t be long though. Why don’t you pull up and stay awhile?”

“Thanks, but…” Jughead faltered, searching for an excuse. “I’ll come back later,” he muttered. He turned to go but froze when he felt Mustang’s hand on his shoulder, heavy and firm.

“I insist,” Mustang said. His smile was friendly—welcoming, even—but it still sent a shiver down Jughead’s spine.

So Jughead sat.

From nowhere, the bartender appeared. Mustang signalled to him and before Jughead could even blink he had set two glasses of liquor on the counter in front of them. Mustang pushed one towards him and watched keenly as he brought it to his lips.

“’Atta boy,” Mustang said as Jughead took a long sip and erupted into a coughing fit. The alcohol burned his throat, but almost instantly he felt a queasy kind of warmth start to spread through his chest, settling heavily in his arms. Mustang was grinning at him, and Jughead didn’t want to think about how he’d feel when the glass was empty.

Then again…

As he stared blearily into the depth of his glass, Jughead thought resentfully of his father. If it was good enough for FP, why wasn’t it good enough for him, too? If FP would rather live his life in a drunken daze, maybe there was something to it after all. Jughead raised the glass to his nose, this time to decipher the acrid smell. He’d always heard people talk about alcohol in terms of smoke and wood and citrus, but it just smelled like paint thinner to him, and it burned his nose. He took another gulp anyway; this time he resisted the urge to cough and kept drinking despite the burn. At his elbow, Mustang chuckled heartily.

“Take after your daddy, huh?” he asked as Jughead set the empty glass on the counter.

Jughead shrugged. His head felt strange and his stomach sloshed unpleasantly whenever he moved.

“You know my dad?”

“Who doesn’t? FP Jones is a legend round here.”

“What?”

Mustang burst into laughter. “Oh, you didn’t know? FP, he’s been running the show for a while. Smart guy—we all owe him a lot.”

Somehow, Jughead’s glass was full again. He took another gulp to suppress the panic rising in his throat. It seemed to do the trick—he already felt looser and more relaxed, despite the news that his dad was some kind of Serpent kingpin.

Mustang had started droning on about bikes and maple syrup and family business, but the words were nothing but white noise to Jughead’s ears; his mind was racing. He kept sipping his drink. It wasn’t long before the burn all but disappeared, dulled a pleasant, numb warmth.

“When will he be back?” Jughead asked abruptly. Mustang faltered.

“Well, can’t say for sure. FP, he does things on his own time.

Jughead looked down to find his glass empty again. Without warning, the panic was back, and the hazy atmosphere of the Whyte Wyrm seemed suddenly, overwhelmingly claustrophobic.

“I have to go,” Jughead said. His tongue felt thick and sluggish.

“Easy there kid,” Mustang said as Jughead stood too quickly and lurched sideways, only just managing to catch himself. “Still a bit of a lightweight, huh? Don’t worry, I got you…” Jughead jerked away as Mustang grabbed his arm. He didn’t much like being touched, especially by some low-life biker who smelled like stale beer and cheap aftershave. Still, he found he was too tired and too uncoordinated to push Mustang away. He doubted he could walk a straight line on his own, anyways, so he let Mustang guide him.

Damn, was two drinks really all it took? Jughead had always avoided alcohol, so this feeling was more-or-less new to him. He felt like his head was on a rubber band, swinging back and forth every time he moved.

It took him a minute to notice that Mustang wasn’t headed for the exit. Instead, he was steering Jughead toward the back of the bar, past crowded tables full of cards and drinks and patrons with curious eyes.

Mustang led him through a set of doors covered by thick black curtains and the noise of the bar disappeared. Jughead shook his head, suddenly aware of the hollow ringing in his ears. His stomach lurched as Mustang dropped him unceremoniously onto a nearby sofa that smelled like fifty years of spilled bear and cigarette smoke.

Jughead closed his eyes and willed the room to stop spinning. This was _not_ what he had planned. Still, he felt a little smug—he imagined what his dad would say if he found him like this. Would he be horrified? Amused? Straight-edge Juggie, drunk in the back of the roughest biker bar in town.

No, FP would hate it. Jughead had always been his shining beacon of hope—the creative genius, the smart kid, the writer. Even if it was too late for FP to rise above his trailer-park-tragedy of a past, Jughead could still make something of himself. His whole life he had felt the weight of those expectations—the pressure, the worry, and the goddamn hypocrisy of it all.

So there was something satisfying about being the disappointment for once. Jughead laughed aloud, feeling reckless.

“Having fun?”

Mustang’s voice was close—closer than he remembered—and his breath was hot on Jughead’s face. Maybe it was the liquor, but Jughead didn’t mind all that much.

Mustang shifted closer; his leg brushed Jughead’s knee, and Jughead’s stomach jumped into his throat.

“Can see why FP didn’t want you here.”

“Why’s that?” Jughead asked. His heart was pounding and his limbs tingled with adrenaline.

Mustang chuckled. He was so close that his whiskers tickled Jughead’s cheek.

“Why d’you think?”

Jughead’s breath hitched when Mustang’s hand moved to his thigh. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but it sent a wave of heat through him that pooled in his stomach. He let our a soft sigh as Mustang reached his crotch and started massaging his half-hard dick over his jeans.

“Thought so,” Mustang said and pressed his lips to Jughead’s neck. His beard was soft, Jughead thought vaguely. As Mustang’s teeth grazed the tender skin below his jaw, he found his thoughts drifting again to his father.

FP never wanted Jughead to be like him—to feel the things he felt. The guilt ate him up inside until all he could do was pull away, because he didn’t want Jughead to get to close or to need him too much. But it wasn’t a matter of need, Jughead thought as the hand between his legs gave a particularly hard squeeze—it was a matter of wanting FP to act like a dad, for once. Like he actually wanted a son at all. The other stuff—the stuff he didn't let himself think about anymore—he'd long since given up on. 

Jughead gave a small moan. It felt good to be touched like this—with a greedy kind of hunger, like Mustang wanted to possess him and swallow him whole.

“You’re too pretty for your own good,” Mustang breathed. Before Jughead could respond, Mustang was kissing him, sloppy and rough, sliding his tongue deep into Jughead’s mouth while his hand fumbled with his belt.

The panic was back. _Stop_ , Jughead tried to say, but the words stuck in his throat. Suddenly Mustang’s hand’s weren’t electrifying or exciting anymore, they were constrictive, smothering him, holding him in place even as the bile rose in his throat and his lungs screamed for air.

Dimly, he was aware of a distant thud—a door slamming?—and the Mustang was gone. Jughead reeled, gasping, clawing at the threadbare fabric of the sofa as he tried to get his bearings. The room was mostly dark, lit by only a few dusty lamps here and there, and at first Jughead couldn’t see anything but shadows. Mustang was on the floor with another man sitting on his chest, gripping him by the collar, snarling a stream of profanity in an all-too-familiar voice.

_“Dad?”_

FP—because it was FP, Jughead could see that now—hoisted Mustang to his feet and dragged him out of the room.

For a moment everything was quiet. Jughead blinked furiously, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He didn’t dare move. Outside, he could hear some kind of commotion—muffled yelling, splintering wood, and then nothing. He exhaled shakily and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

He was still sitting on the couch when FP burst back into the room. He jumped to his feet as fast as he could, trying not to sway on the spot as FP stalked towards him.

“What the fuck, Jughead?” FP spat. Jughead braced himself as FP seized him by the shoulders and slammed him roughly into the wall.

“I was just—”

“What? Gonna let that motherfucker do whatever he wanted to you? _Take_ whatever he wanted?”

“No, I—” Jughead tried to find the right words, but nothing was coming; his mind felt thick and muddled. FP paused, breathing heavily. His hands were twisted in the fabric of Jughead’s shirt, and Jughead squirmed, trying to loosen his hold. “I just… came to find you,” he muttered. FP’s mouth opened in surprise.

“Are you _drunk?”_

Jughead glared up at him defiantly. “Are _you?”_

FP shoved him into the wall again, knocking the air from his lungs.

“Don’t you dare speak to me that way,” FP said through gritted teeth. His breath smelled sweeter than Mustang’s had, Jughead noted with a sickening rush of warmth.

“Let go,” he mumbled weakly, trying to pry FP’s hands loose. They didn’t budge.

“Why’d you come here, Jug?” FP growled, his voice breaking in a way that made Jughead’s chest ache. In this light, the lines on his dad’s face were softer; he looked younger, but still just as broken and guilty as the last time Jughead had seen him.

“Wanted to see you,” Jughead mumbled.

“You know that’s a bad idea.”

“I know,” Jughead muttered. The words tasted bitter in his mouth; he swallowed the lump in his throat and tried his best to blink back tears.

FP sighed, and Jughead could feel him relax ever so slightly. He brought a hand to Jughead’s forehead and brushed back a loose strand of hair that had fallen into his eyes. The touch sent a shiver down his spine, and he couldn’t help savouring the closeness. Despite everything, he felt safe like this.

“You’ve really grown up, hm?” FP mumbled. Even in his current less-than-sober state, Jughead could hear the liquor in his voice. “You look just like…”

There was a dreamy sheen in FP’s eyes, along with something else Jughead couldn’t quite place. Longing, maybe. FP’s hand slid down to cup Jughead’s jaw, his thumb moving in soft, soothing circles over his cheek.

Jughead’s skin tingled under FP’s touch, and he felt a familiar heat pulse through him. He didn’t want to think about what that meant. Instead, his eyes fluttered shut and he let his mind wander. It felt good, that was all. It was nice like this—touching this way.

Maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise when FP kissed him.

Jughead’s mind went blank and he froze, stiff as a board, heart pounding in his throat.

When FP finally pulled back, Jughead’s lips felt raw. With a deafening rush a million different thoughts and feelings filled the vacuum in his mind. He reminded himself to breath, at last drawing air in sharp, jittery gasps. It was probably a good thing that FP was pinning him against the wall, because he didn’t trust himself to stand.

FP’s hand snaked up the back of Jughead’s neck. The look in his eye wasn’t sad or tired anymore, but wild and dangerous. Not for the first time that night, Jughead felt laid bare and entirely vulnerable.

FP’s breath was hot on his lips, and when he spoke his voice resonated deep in Jughead’s chest:

“No one touches you but me.”

Jughead said nothing. His mouth was dry and his head was spinning.

“You hear me?” FP whispered. His words were laced with mint and liquor.

“Yes,” Jughead managed. His voice sounded dreamy and far away, and his skin was on fire. There was a rushing in his ears like a leaking tire, and the heat pooling in his groin was almost unbearable. Before he could stop himself he had closed the gap between them for a second time—they were already so close, and it only took the smallest movement.

The kiss was deep and rough; FP twisted his fingers in the fine hair at the nape of Jughead’s neck, and Jughead made a small noise when FP’s tongue slid past his swollen lips. The sound seemed to encourage FP, and he slipped a hand between Jughead’s legs. “Hard for me already?” he asked breathlessly.

Jughead squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Hot shame curled in his stomach, and he couldn’t help a strangled moan as FP started massaging him through his jeans.

FP pressed his lips to the shell of Jughead’s ear. “This what you wanted?” he asked. “This what you wanted from that fucking scumbag?”

Jughead bit his lip and shook his head again. He tried to speak, tried to say—what? The words in his mind turned to gibberish as FP trailed kisses along his jaw, stubble raw on his feverish skin. The sensations all blurred together, overwhelming him with pleasure and shame and that desperate, burning need that had been building inside of him as long as he could remember. Dimly, he heard the jingle of his belt.

Jughead gasped when FP’s hand slid into his boxers, but the sound was lost into FP’s mouth. FP oscillated between rough and tender—demanding and hesitant—but each time he felt FP falter, Jughead only pulled him closer, terrified that FP would come to his senses and finally push him away for good.

“You’re still my boy, aren’t you?” FP whispered between kisses. The knot in Jughead’s stomach twisted. He’d wanted to hear those words for so long, and he felt relief flood through him at the fondness in FP’s voice.

“Yeah,” Jughead said, his voice ragged; barely a whisper. FP’s hand was firm between his legs, but he moved with surprising gentleness. With a jolt and a whimper Jughead realized he was already close.

“You gonna come for me now?” FP asked, sensing his desperation.

Jughead groaned as FP tightened his grip.

“No, not—not yet,” Jughead mumbled. FP didn’t slow his rhythm, and Jughead rocked his hips, fucking into FP’s hand. He needed to go faster—harder. He needed _more._  

_“Dad,”_ Jughead gasped. It was almost a plea, but Jughead didn’t know what for. He should want this to end—shouldn’t have let this happen in the first place. But, as fucked up as it was, wasn’t this what he’d wanted all along?

FP shivered. “It’s all right,” he whispered, though he didn’t sound convinced.

Jughead buried his face in the crook of FP’s neck, savouring the scent of him—sweat and aftershave and smoke-stained leather. The rest of the world faded from his mind—there was only the two of them, and nothing else mattered; not the shame, or the guilt, or the fear of _what happened next._

Jughead reached up, fumbling for FP’s face in the dark. His fingertips scraped rough stubble as he pulled FP in for another kiss, wet and desperate and deep.

 FP worked him slowly, steadily—he swirled his thumb over the head of Jughead’s dick, smearing precome down his shaft to ease the movement of his hand. Waves of pleasure rippled down Jughead’s legs, adding to the pressure building inside of him.

“It’s all right, Jug,” FP said into his ear. Jughead shuddered violently.

“Ah—I’m gonna—dad, I’m—” Stars burst in eyes and then Jughead was coming hard, rocking his hips erratically. He couldn’t help crying out, moaning loudly as he thrust into FP’s hand until he was spent and shaking.

When he thought about it later, alone and sick with guilt and need, Jughead took the most comfort from the memory of FP’s voice in his ear, whispering the same words over and over like a mantra:

_“Good boy; my boy; my son.”_

Jughead didn’t move for a while after; he was afraid to. Instead, he lost himself in his father—the feeling of his broad shoulders and solid chest and the pounding of his heart.

“Time to go,” FP muttered after a while, and began to gently pry Jughead’s arms from his neck.

Jughead leaned back against the wall and gazed down blearily at the mess on his jeans. Cold horror blossomed in his stomach, writhing like a live animal. Or was that—?

“Jug?” FP asked tightly at the look on Jughead’s face. “Are you—? Oh, fuck—”

FP lurched backward as Jughead turned and vomited onto the carpet.

*

The walk back through the bar was a dreamy blur. FP slung Jughead’s arm around his shoulder, guiding him through the maze of tables. It was more than a little surreal, seeing as Jughead was usually the one carrying FP home in a drunken stupor.

He didn’t remember much after that, only the rumble of a motorcycle between his knees and the heat of FP’s body against his chest. The next thing he knew, FP was shaking him awake. Jughead opened his eyes to find them parked in front of the Twilight. The fence was chained shut, and behind it the white screen rose high into the night sky like the sail of a ship.

Neither of them said a word as Jughead slid off the bike, heart heavy and a lump in his throat. He pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket, and FP cleared his throat awkwardly.

“You should come back to the trailer. If—if you want.” He gestured vaguely to the drive-in. “It’s not much, but it’s gotta be better than this place, right?”

Jughead frowned and looked at the ground.

“I just mean… it would be… nice to have you,” FP went on. “Could be fun.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Jughead said. It was late, he was still drunk, and with everything that had just happened he didn’t exactly have the mental fortitude to think that far ahead.

“Good,” FP said, like that settled the matter. “Take care of yourself, all right?”

“Okay.”

FP smiled uncertainly as he revved his bike, and then he was gone into the night.

Jughead stood for a minute, staring at the spot where he’d been, before he finally turned and trudged towards the gate of the drive-in. The empty field in front of the screen was eerie in the dark, and Jughead walked quickly to the small building that housed the projection room. He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally closed the door behind him.

Jughead flopped down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was still spinning in a vaguely unsettling manner, but not as much as it had been back at the bar. The bar…

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the memory. He was too tired to think about how fucked up he was.

Still, as sleep began to take him, he couldn’t help letting his mind wander to the memory of his father, and his voice, and the feeling of warm leather under his fingers.

Maybe living with FP wouldn’t be so bad after all.

 


End file.
